“All one has to do in order to forget the romance with which old Italian houses are invested is to live in one,” the contessa replied. “As a matter of fact, they contain more rheumatism than romance. This one is fairly livable now, but I wish you could have seen it when Morelli first brought me here as a bride! Words can’t express it. An old-fashioned house-cleaning and some good American dollars make the best antidote I know. The first point of interest I was shown here was the room in which the previous Contessa Morelli died. My ambitions were along different lines, so I added some modern improvements, much to the consternation of my husband and the servants. And the present Contessa Morelli, you may have observed, is still very much alive.”
By the time the call came to an end Helen and Emory had learned much regarding Italian life from an American woman’s standpoint, but in the mean time the contessa’s active brain had not been idle. The situation in which she found her new friends puzzled her somewhat and interested her more. She had discovered the indifferent husband and the passive wife—two necessary elements in every domestic drama. Emory answered well enough for the admiring friend of the wife, so all that was necessary was to find the second woman and the dramatis personæ would be complete. This would explain the husband’s indifference and the wife’s passivity. It was an interesting problem, and the contessa saw definite possibilities in it.
As Emory and Helen took their leave Phil suggested that they run down to the library in the motor-car to pick up Armstrong and Miss Thayer.
“Miss Thayer?” queried the contessa.
“My friend, whom you must meet,” Helen explained. “She has been with us almost since our arrival, and is assisting Mr. Armstrong in his literary work.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the contessa, beaming as the completeness of her intuition came to her. “How very interesting! I shall look forward to meeting these two other members of your family.”
The machine reached the foot of the hill and slowed down to pass through the city streets before either Emory or Helen broke the silence, yet it was evident that their minds found full employment. The call upon the contessa left them both with an intangibly unpleasant sensation.
“I am sorry I went with you, Helen,” Emory remarked, after the long pause.
“I am sorry you did,” admitted Helen, frankly, his words fitting in exactly with her own thoughts.
“It is too bad that one can’t do or say the natural thing without having it misunderstood. The contessa is determined to find something upon which she may seize as material for gossip.”